her skin as smooth as the silver coating,
eyes black, glossy, hard as stones,
lips you’d expect: coral, shell-formed.
Certain distortions appeared:
cheeks a degree fuller
the two hooded eyes placed wider apart.
With a flick of the wrist
she would alter their shapes,
amusing herself, remaking herself
to her liking.
A very private mirror, this,
and every night,
sometimes through the day,
the Wicked Queen surveyed
what once had been Snow White.
Now, concave, convex, either way
the crinkled lids, the faded purpled iris;
the whole more slurried than it once was.
Instead of lips like shells,
the soft inner pulp of oysters,
whichever way she grins.
She is old, she is tired:
how many millions of spoons has she seen?
Dipped into foam, only to be whipped out again,
and then, at last, wiped clean.